ONE SHOT Deadpool
by David Golightly
Summary: Single issue starring Deadpool. The MercwithaMouth has been set up, but hilarity ensues! That wacky deathmachine just loves breaking down that fourth wall...


**Deadpool**

**One-shot**

"**Just another day in the life."**

I'm lying on the floor in a puddle of my own blood and all I can think about is if I left the oven on when I left the house this morning.

How many anti-heroes can say that? Huh? The Punisher? Oh, please! Like that hack could survive having his abdomen torn open by a shotgun at point-blank range. When's the last time Frank Castle could see his spleen on the floor next to him and still be alive to worry about his gas bill? Sure, the Punisher is great fun at a family picnic but he doesn't have a doozy of a healing factor like little ol' me.

Usually I don't take kindly to being left for dead on the floor of a stinky warehouse but it's a hot day and I'm kind of enjoying the cold concrete. Who says global warming is a crock of shit? You could boil an egg on the sidewalk and it's only March!

"Just keep moving the stuff here, Donny," one of the goombas said to the other goomba. That's right…I called them 'goombas.' I think it's appropriate given they are both brutish Italians with accents that any mama-mia would be proud of.

"We gonna let him bleed all over the place?" Donny replied. What's wrong with my blood? You don't want it all over your nice floor or something? "We can't just let him lay there, Mike. We're gonna have to pick him up eventually."

"Either we move these illegal weapons or we move the body, Donny. I can't do both at once here, fer chrissake. We've got a schedule to keep."

I'm sorry…I just realized that you walked right into the middle of all this. Must be more than a little confusing for you. First, intros: I'm Deadpool, affectionately known as the Merc-with-a-Mouth (on account of my gorgeous lips, so don't ever let anyone tell you different). I was hired by another goomba named Sal O' Happy Day (hey, I didn't name him) to take out his competition, namely these two yahoos. Smuggling weapons seems to be their favorite hobby.

"Well, if you had thought before shooting the asshole I wouldn't be inconveniencing ya!" Donny yelled back. Temper, temper, young man!

I found them rather easily thanks to Sal's information and smashed through the biggest window I could find. Entrances are important, after all. The funny thing is it looked like they were waiting for me. No sooner did I hit the floor and take out three gangstas (recognize!) then Mike over here pumped my guts full of buckshot. Not that it matters too much since my healing factor keeps me far away from death's door, but it's not like I enjoy being embarrassed like that. I'm a professional, dammit! How red is my face going to be when the Mercenaries Monthly Meeting gets together on Thursday?

"Fine, fine…grab his feet," Mike finally gave in. Ya big dummy.

The two rejects from Godfather IV (straight to video) came over to pick up my carcass, which was mostly healed at this point. You see, my healing factor can patch up just about anything. I'm starting to wonder if even a nuclear bomb detonated in my stomach would actually be able to finish me off. Mike grabbed my feet while Donny scooped me up from under my shoulders.

"Tee-hee!" I screeched from under my red and black mask. "That tickles!"

"Sonofa!" Mike hollered as he dropped my feet. "He's still alive!"

"You got that right, Michael Motorcycle!" Shoving my weight back against Donny, I kicked my feet up into Mike's hairy chest. The satisfying _crunch!_ of Mike's ribs cracking under my boots was like music to my little ears. I prefer Frank Sinatra personally, but Mike's xylophone ribcage will do for now.

Mike flies onto his back, cradling his bruised torso. I toss my feet back down and use the momentum to bounce right back up and over Donny, my arms stretching out from within his flimsy grasp. Grabbing a knife from my belt, I wrap my other arm around Donny's thick goomba neck and jab the tip of the blade just far enough into his chin to draw a speck of blood.

"Donny! You're my favorite New Kid on the Block!" I said into his ear. To look at me you wouldn't know I have a signed album. "How's about you and I discuss a few things?"

"Oh, God…d-don't murder me…" Donny whimpers. "Mike! Help me, man…"

"Mike is busy trying to decide what he should tell the doctors. It's either going to be he got punked by a guy in sweetass pajamas or he fell down the stairs. Do you guys get medical or is that only in the real Mafia?"

"What do you want from me, man?" The tension in Donny's voice makes it sound as if he's about to pee his pants. As much as I enjoy stuff like that I really need to get moving here. NYPB Blue isn't watching _itself_, ya know?

"You guys _knew_ I was coming. There's no way you could have heard me. My kung-fu is strong, mo fo! I know when I'm being set up, so spill it before I spill you." I punctuate the last syllable by sticking the knife tip another millimeter into his neck. Blood dribbles out from the tiny cut and Donny starts to squirm from the pain.

"Alright! Okay!" the goomba exclaimed….or maybe he proclaimed it…I'm not sure what the difference is. There was some definite claiming going on, regardless. "We were expecting ya because--"

KA-BOOM!

The bullet went deep into Donny's chest, doing a hell of a lot more damage then my itsy-bitsy knife. Donny fell back into me but his spaghetti filled body halted the bullet's progress. Mike was apparently back on his feet with a Magnum in his hand that Dirty Harry would get teary-eyed over. Ain't dat a bitch? Donny is ready to enlighten me and Mike over here has to go and ruin the climactic revelation!

I dropped Donny to the ground and did a few back handsprings, avoiding Mike's gunfire. For a goomba, this guy has some real gusto. I reached into the pouch hanging on the back of my utility belt (oh, like that bat-guy is the only one allowed to have a utility belt?) and palmed a throwing star.

The warehouse we were in was your typical gangster storage facility. Lots of boxes piled up high filled with illegal contraband. I bounded behind a set of crates just after I whipped the throwing star at Mike. I'm pretty proud of my aim and with good reason. I hit Mike right in his Adam's apple, eliciting some gleeful gurgling noises.

"Hmm…" I said aloud to nobody. Internal monologuing just gets old after awhile, don't you think? "In retrospect, I do believe I should have not killed that nice man with the big gun. No one to tell me how and why I was set up."

As if on cue, the side door busted open and a dozen men in fine-tailored suits clamored into the warehouse with lots of guns drawn. A few of them looked around curiously at the dead bodies strewn about from my initial entrance. Were these guys with Donny and Mike? Were they the ones who set me up? Who put the bomb in the bomb-shoo-bomb?

"Howdy, partners!" I proclai…uh…exclai…uh…oh, forget it! I just bloody said it, all right?

Apparently they weren't feeling friendly. The sight of a badass in red and black spandex must put them off somehow. Every one of them pulled out machine guns and uzis from God-knows-where and started to light the place up with hot lead. I ducked back down behind the stack of crates and scooted over behind another stack while bullets rained down all around me. Chunks of cement exploded out from the ground as some of the men aimed low enough to hit the floor (the sweet, cold, nurturing floor…).

I have a little problem now. Two of the guns I brought with me are lying next to Donny and Mike where I can't get to them. I only have my sword, a few throwing stars, a couple knives, and a 9mm with me. That would probably be enough for me to take these guys down, but I would get torn to shreds by their guns before I made it close to them.

Hey…they said something about moving weapons before I killed them, didn't they? The crates I'm hiding behind seem to be sturdy enough to block gunfire so they must be reinforced for some reason. Maybe for, oh I don't know, transporting big as hell guns?

When I was granted my extraordinary healing factor I also received a few other upgrades, like enhanced strength. That's the reason Mike's ribs shattered with just one kick. I tell the chicks I'm buff because I work out all the time but between you and me it's because of my enhancements.

I swiveled around to face the back of the crate to read the words "GUATMALA'S FINEST COFFE" written across it in big, red letters. Yeah, right. Coffee my cute lil' ass. One quick super-punch later and I'm looking inside the reinforced box with a giant smile on my face.

"This is just too good to be true!" I said as I pulled out the biggest assault rifle I've ever seen. This thing was as long as my arm and thicker than my…well…you can see where I'm going with this. The clip reached down to my waist and was just screaming to be emptied. I'm happy to oblige with such things.

I popped back up, disregarding the gunfire still ricocheting all around me. I actually caught one in my shoulder but my healing factor fixed that up in a matter of seconds. I swung the assault rifle around to point at the dozen gunmen and felt strangely compelled to quote one of my favorite movies.

"It's not a TUMOR!" I yelled in the best _Ahnold_ voice I could muster.

Light erupted from the muzzle of my newfound toy as bullets poked and prodded their way into the opposition. It only took a few seconds for the dozen men to spasm to the floor in the midst of their coming deaths. It was beautiful! This piece of hardware was like ambrosia…if ambrosia was a gun, of course . I must have fired off a hundred rounds in just under six seconds! Oooo…papa likes!

Everybody was dead again. Whoops! I really have to learn to ask the questions _before_ I shoot.

Taking the massive assault rifle with me, I hopped the crates and went over to the closest dead suit. These guys couldn't have been with Mike and Donny…just didn't feel right. They dressed differently and the suits didn't smell like garlic. This was a hit squad, but were they sent for me or the other two schmucks?

Poking around one of the suit's pockets, I found his wallet but it didn't have anything useful in it (aside from the Subway Club card good for a free sandwich). Just as I take the card and drop the wallet, a cell phone goes off somewhere. I shuffled through the bodies until I found the source of the annoying Britney Spears ringtone. Honestly, she's not even that hot anymore!

"Hello," I said into the phone. It was a lot nicer than the one I was packing.

"Bart!" replied an angry voice. Something familiar about that voice… "What the hell is going on? Is that Deathpool guy dead yet or not?"

"His name is Deadpool and no he is most certainly not!" I was never good at prank calls. "If I'm not mistaken this wouldn't happen to be one Mr. Sal O' Happy Day, would it?"

"Uh…wha…"

"You tried to have me whacked! And not even in a good way!"

"Now…just wait a minute--"

"You wait right there, Sal," I commanded. Damned if I can't pull off some good intimidation at times. "I'll be paying you a visit just as soon as I finish skinning your boys alive. They're all dead, by the way. Yes, I'm aware that I just contradicted myself. Thanks for the heads-up on setting me up, you _punta_."

I slapped the phone shut (you can't really get a good SLAM when hanging up a cell phone) and dropped it onto its dead owner. Today was definitely more interesting than most but I seriously hate it when I'm set up. I don't mind the killing me thing so much but I have a big problem with authority. Past experiences have but a little hurt into the old 'Pool.

Grabbing some extra clips of ammo for my lovely new gun, I vaulted back up to the window I originally came in through and made my way back to Sal O' Happy Day's mansion. He had armed guards up the wazoo but I was fairly confident I could make it in to see him personally.

I just had to stop by my place to set the VCR to record NYPD Blue first.

---------------

"Honestly, Sal," I said to the fat Italian. These Italians and their crazy bodyguards; always jumping in front of my bullets. "I'm a bit confused here. Why exactly did you set me up? I was taking out your competition for you!"

"Business…has been bad," Sal replied in between gasping breaths. His face had been slashed by my sword and his ear was sitting on the ground at his feet. Blood ran down his front side and stained the thick grass. "Didn't have the money to pay ya but I still needed those other guys whacked…"

Oops…sorry about that. You walked in after the fun got started again, right? You really need to learn to hold it. See what you've been missing? I ended up storming Sal's castle by way of automobile demolition (that means I drove a truck filled with C4 straight into his house). The explosion was something I would have to remember to put in my diary later as it was one of my best yet.

After the fires died down, I hopped out of the truck (that's right, I drove it in myself…healing factor, remember?) and drew out my sword. With a mighty battle cry I slashed through the remaining bodyguards, hacking off limbs and other fun things. You know that scene in Kill Bill where Uma Thurman slices up two dozen badguys? It was a lot like that. Very cool stuff, honestly. You should have been here for it.

Anyway, I caught up with Sal in the backyard as he was trying to make his escape. I plugged the two guys running with him in the back and grabbed Sal by the shoulder, spinning him around. After a quick hello, I sliced him up with my katana and I think that brings us up to where you walked in. I hope you refilled your popcorn before coming back.

"So let me get this straight," I said. "You hired me to kill your competitors and then tried to kill me, too…because you couldn't afford my fee?"

"Yeah…" he muttered, spitting blood onto my booties. Yuck.

"I'm a little disappointed, Sal. I honestly expected a little more of a conspiracy here. I'm used to them, you see. Seems like there's always some giant conspiracy revolving around me. Maybe I'm too self-centered. Maybe everything _doesn't_ revolve around me. What do you think, Sal?"

Instead of answering, he very rudely coughed up another wad of blood onto the grass.

"C'mon Sal! I'm trying to have a dialogue with you here! Oh, just forget it."

I picked Sal up off the ground by his collar and slapped him in the face to get his attention. His blood was starting to coagulate as a few flecks came loose from the second slap I gave him. I hoisted him up with my left hand while I slung my new assault rifle around from where it rested on my shoulder.

"I just have one question for you before I put the proverbial cap in your ass." I shoved the impressive muzzle of the rifle into his face to get my point across. "Does this mean I'm not getting paid?"

Sal's eyes grew wide as the cold steel of the assault rifle dug into his fat cheeks. Some people may call me sadistic but I love when people get that look on their faces. It's how you know they're really paying attention to you. There isn't another damn thought inside his head that doesn't concern me right now. He's not daydreaming or doing his taxes or running through his to-do list…he's concentrating on nothing but me.

"There's a safe in the house…" he mumbled. "Just don't kill me. I have a daughter. She's going to be fourteen next month. Please…"

"I'll tell you what," I offered. "If you can guess the number in my head right now I'll let you live. I'll completely forget the fact you hired me only with the intent of murdering me and skipping out on my fee. I won't even say anything about your operations. Hell, I'll even buy your daughter a birthday present! What's your guess, Sal?"

Sal's eyes moved to the gun and then back to me. Gun. Me. Gun. Me. I'm going to get dizzy here. "Pick a number, Sal! You're making me seasick."

"Forty…uh…forty-two…"

"WRONG! Sorry, big guy. Looks like you won't be seeing your next plate of mama's meatballs." I pressed the gun deeper into his cheek and got ready to pull the trigger but Sal started to squirm even more in my grip. He was a feisty one.

"Wait!" he screamed in protest. "Just wait a second! I have more than just what's in the safe! You can have it all! Jesus, just don't kill me!"

"You were holding out on me? Figures. Okie dokie, Sal. If there's one thing I love more than killing people it's counting c-notes. Lead the way." I deposited Sal rather carefully onto the ground and motioned for him to head back to the burning house (it was more smoldering at this point, actually).

We hadn't made it more than ten feet before my good buddy Sal reached into his coat and ripped out a Saturday night special. The tiny gun wouldn't be able to stop chipmunk and using it to kill me was his masterful plan. Points for clichés at least. You've got to love a good double-cross (even though he double-crossed me already today so I guess he's actually quadruple-crossing).

Instinctively, I sidestepped to get out of Sal's line of fire and squeezed the trigger on the assault rifle. Sal's already decimated body shook violently as it was filled with dozens of rounds. Whatever blood he had left in his system sprayed out onto the lawn as he slumped to the ground. He wouldn't be getting up again unless it was in a bodybag.

"Perfect," I sighed. "Now I have to search for the safe myself. You couldn't have waited?"

I would like to tell you that it wasn't about the money; that it was about respect and honor and blah blah blah…but I would only be fooling myself. Let's be honest here; I'm a mercenary. I _love_ money. I roll around in it naked on Wednesdays.

I bet you think today was pretty crazy, huh? Today was just anther day in the life of the Merc-with-a-Mouth. If you want to see something really crazy swing by Madcap's place after he's been on a binge. Me? I'm just your typical mercenary that loves to break down the fourth wall and have conversations with himself.

This is where I'm supposed to end the whole shebang with a witty one-liner. Well guess what…I ain't got one, son. All my energy for today has been spent. Go rent a porno and pick up a six pack. That's my plan for ending today.


End file.
